The Truth About Christmas
by ladybleugonewilde
Summary: A story in which Ron ponders love and friendship, and defends his right to hate Christmas. Revised to fit HBP canon. Be nice, be naughty, but please review.


**The Truth About Christmas**

by LadyBleuGoneWilde

There's a part of me that has always hated Christmas.

I know what you're thinking . . .

"_Ronald Weasley!_ _How can anyone as lucky as you say such a thing? _

_You have the friendship of Harry Potter — world renowned wizard since his infancy, youngest seeker in a century, and all-around D.A. bad-ass — as well as the respect of your quidditch-loving Gryffindor peers. _

_You have a large, healthy, loving family . . . unless you include the twins or Percy — they're mental! — and what you have together outweighs all the treasures in Gringott's vaults. _

_You have lived to see the likes of Draco Malfoy brutalized by a single slap . . . twice . . . and have been humbled by the beauty of the cleverest witch of your year."_

Oi! — I have not! So I finally noticed that Hermione is a _girl_ . . . So what? We've been friends for ages, and if you note the fine print on the friendship contract, it clearly states: **Thou shalt not lust after your best friend — **no matter how much you want to lose your fingers in her hair or silence her pert mouth with your own. I mean, bloody hell, people — I am 16-years-old! _Every_ woman becomes shaggably veela at this point in life. It doesn't mean anything.

Except that it does. I hate this. Maybe I'm more like my father than I thought . . .

Yeah, that's it! It's the Muggle in her that I'm drawn to. She's a plug and I'm just trying to fathom her out. And there's more than ecclectricty that makes her spark. Oh, bugger. She does. She truly sparkles and shines and it makes me miserable. She's a Honeyduke's goody that I'm not allowed to taste. And, Merlin-be-damned, I want to.

That's all I really want for Christmas. I'd trade Harry's _Firebolt_ for five minutes under the mistletoe with her . . . hmmm, mistletoe and a willing Hermione? Let's pause to ponder that for a moment, shall we?

Wicked.

Merlin's beard, I'd give up Bertie Bott's Beans for a year if I could touch her . . . just run my hand over hers as it rests on the Gryffindor common room table. I'd run through the dungeons starkers and snog Snape senseless in the middle of Double-Potions if she'd only want me half as much as I want her. But I know that she doesn't.

I usually blame it on Krum — that bloody bastard — but sometimes I wonder if there's someone else in Hermione's heart . . . if another friend has surpassed my clumsy efforts to win the prize without, as usual, even trying.

I wonder if Harry knows that Hermione loves him, the lucky prat.

She has to. I saw it in her that first day on the train, in the way she introduced herself to us.

"_Holy Cricket! You're Harry Potter. I'm Hermione Granger. And you are?"_

Her eyes seemed to pass right through me . . . through my pointy nose and my Weasley red hair . . . past my freckles and my dazed expression. The way she cocked her head to the side and looked at me curiously, as if I were a quiz, I thought that for the first time someone had looked at me and seen more than my family. I thought that she'd seen _me._

"_Ron. Ron Weasley," _I answered.

"_Pleasure,"_ she said.

But it wasn't . . . I could see it in her expression. She looked at me like Snape looks at Harry sometimes . . . like she wanted to fix me. I looked at her and saw past her confidence and bushy hair to see someone familiar . . . someone who was looking for approval and acceptance just like me. She was someone who looked to the Great Harry Potter, the-boy-who-lived, to appreciate her, the-girl-who-could-do-anything-but-fly. I looked at her and saw myself. She looked at me and saw the smudge on my nose. _  
_

"_You have dirt on your nose, did you know? Right there."_

It had hurt, realizing that I wasn't good enough . . . that I'd never be good enough, for her or Harry. And I panicked. After all, if you could be friends with the cleverest witch in your year or just the youngest Weasley — neither the best, nor the brightest, nor the funniest of the bunch . . . just another ginger-haired, pasty-faced nobody — who would you choose?

Even Malfoy hated me . . . not that I care about what that bloody ferret thinks! But to be called out like that and to have no defense — to be everything he accused me of and nothing that was special — _that_ was the worst. And here was this girl who was special, was so bloody quick and bold . . . how was I to compete with THAT? So, yeah, I did my best to de-thrown her . . . to show her up in front of Harry. After all, I had two advantages going for me: I came from a family of wizards, so this wizarding business was old hat, and she was — let's face it — just a _girl_.

Believe me, it makes a difference.

At age eleven, girls are considered another species by most boys, wizard or muggle alike . . . the _Maximus Cootieferus_. There is a boundary there that simply isn't crossed . . . boys fall in line with other boys and girls stick to their own to . . . well, to do whatever it is that girls do! But not Hermione . . . she wanted into the boys club that I thought would insulate me, that would keep Harry from comparing me to her, that would keep him from dumping me.

_What?_ That's what it felt like. Oh, shut up you insufferable prats!

With each passing day she was wheedling in closer, wedging her way between me and Harry. And she was such a bloody know-it-all! How can any one person know everything? I mean, we came to Hogwarts to learn, not to show everyone else up! Why even go to Hogwarts if you already knew it all? Because that's what know-it-alls do . . . it's the basis of their natural behavior.

It drove me mental! Why couldn't she just let it go . . . let me have him? He was my friend first!

I didn't realize then that she just wanted to be a part of our friendship. It felt like it was me or her, especially after she showed me up in Charms.

_Wingardium Leviosa_. Sure, I can say it now, and with the proper flick-and-swish to boot . . . but not on that bloody day. Of course, her Charm, like everything else about her, was perfect . . . flawless . . . awe-inspiring.

I hated her then. Hated the way she was trying to take my place . . . the way she made me look stupid in front of everyone . . . in front of Harry! I had to regain my pride, even if it meant I had to crush hers. I had to put a stop to her meddling.

"_She's a nightmare! No wonder she hasn't got any friends."_

What was I thinking? I knew she was there, but I just didn't care. _I_ was the nightmare.

I did it by pushing her away, back into a washroom cubicle to cry her heart out all day.

I know what you're thinking . . .

If you're like Hermione, you're thinking, _"You shameless cad, I hate you!"_

Of course, if you're anything like me you're probably thinking, _"You bloody wanker! Eat slugs!" _

And you're both right . . . although you Hermione-types should loosen up and embrace swearing — it's a far more effective way to vent your spleen, I promise you.

I'm just grateful it all worked out in the end. Harry and I were able to save her from the troll, and we haven't looked back since . . .

Well, not unless she's walking a bit before me and I have a chance to steal a glance at her glorious bum. Merlin! The way it swishes efficiently under her Hogwarts robes is mesmerizing . . . a bewitching spell in and of itself.

Oi! Remember? I'm 16 and male — at least I'm honest as well!

Poor Harry and me, we never would have made it through first year without Hermione. We depended on her level-head and wand-work so much. Harry never would have gotten Nicholas Flamel's Stone without her. There were so many times that she saved us that first year, and I don't just mean when she took the blame for the troll incident. But I thought we'd never get through Christmas without her. I thought **I** couldn't do without her.

I tried to seem so tough when Hermione left for Christmas holidays, by scoffing at her for going home when she could have stayed at Hogwarts with Harry, but I would have given anything to go with my parents to see Charlie in Romania. Of course, I wouldn't have left Harry at Hogwarts . . . I would have brought both of them with me if I could! I was so proud of Charlie — still am, of course — and would have loved to have introduced them to him, but I was still a little bit scared that Hermione would eventually take my place in those days, and so I played up my ties to the wizarding world by talking about my family.

"Ha!" I seemed to say. "I haven't been bested yet."

But Hermione's sad smile tore through my exuberance. It was then that I realized that we'd become a trio.

Christmas Eve was a solemn affair . . . far too quiet for my liking. But Christmas morning was wonderful, and not just because I saw the presents first — it was seeing the joy on Harry's face when he realized that he had presents as well that made the morning grand. Can you imagine that? I mean, my family is poor, but we've always had a Christmas jumper to cheer us up. Okay, so what if the cheer was rooted in laughing at everyone else's jumper? It was still more than Harry'd ever had.

That was the year he received the invisibility cloak.

I've often thought about borrowing it to sneak into the girl's dorm . . . to prank Ginny of course! Boy, you're sick . . . truly mental. As if I'd sneak into Hermione's room just to watch her sleeping or to stroke her hair — she's a bloody prefect, I'll remind you, and so am I! I'd be as loopy as Lockhart to try such a trick, especially with Harry's cloak. What if she caught me . . . and thought I was Harry . . . and then found out I wasn't? After all, Harry's the fanciable one this year, isn't he? (I'm tall, too, you know. Taller, really. But does Hermione see that? No. I could be fanciable too, if I wanted. Or I could wake up and smell the Potter-love. Damn it, Hermione! Is Slughorn's opinion really that much more important to you?) No, this is better. Better for all three of us.

And you wonder why I hate Christmas? It all goes back to that first holiday with Harry.

It was so lonely at first. There's only so many games of wizard chess and exploding snap that one can play before a bloke's ready to climb walls. But at least we had each other. Well, that was until Harry found the mirror of Erised. I'll never forget the night he woke me to come see his family.

At first I thought it was all bollocks, but I followed him anyway because he was my mate. When we finally entered the dark chamber where the mirror was kept, I couldn't help catching my breath and thinking of Hermione. We were having an adventure without her for the first time, and I couldn't help feeling guilty. She should be there beside me — I mean, er, beside **us **— moving towards the frame together to meet Harry's family.

If I'm entirely truthful, I felt a little scared as well. What if Filch came and we needed a quick _Alohomora_ or some other random spell to save the day? We two, Harry and me, were rubbish without her. I remember looking at Harry and swallowing slowly, pretending Hermione was just behind me, urging me forward as I stepped up to the mirror beside Harry. I looked and looked, but didn't see anything.

Harry urged me to stand before the mirror alone, and I bit my lip hard, frowning, as I forced myself to meet my reflection's gaze. Suddenly, I was no longer looking at myself, but at a similar stranger. I looked closer and scoffed out loud as I saw myself at age 17.

I was standing in a Gryffindor quidditch uniform, with Harry laughing and slapping my shoulders in celebration as I held the House Cup aloft. I saw Bill and Charlie nodding at me with huge grins. They were glowing with pride for me and I could barely stand it. I glanced around and found arms creeping around my middle from behind. I could literally feel them, soft and sweet, encircling my middle in a brief hug.

I glanced over my shoulder in surprise, expecting to see Ginny — or even Mum — standing behind me, but there was no one there! I turned my face back to the mirror swiftly to see a halo of brown curls peep out from behind my arm and shoulder. I watched as Hermione's face peered out from behind me, nuzzling her cheek against me as her mouth spread into a mischievous grin. She came around to pin the Headboy's badge on me and I laughed out loud.

"_Do you think this mirror tells the future, Harry?"_

"_How can it? My parents are dead."_

I looked back at Harry then, struck by the strained quality of his voice. He looked crushed. His shoulders stooped forward, and he was rubbing his scar with a stiff, hesitant hand as if it were raw and irritated. I don't know how we got back to the boys' dorm, but I remember trying to think of what Hermione would do if she were there with us. We sat on the edge of our beds, facing one another, and shared an uneasy gaze for a long time.

"_I don't think you should go back, mate. There's something off about that mirror."_

"_I did see them, Ron. They were there. They were with me."_

"_But Harry . . . it must be a trick . . . a dirty, rotten trick. It can't be real."_

I saw him look back at me with a stark expression as the color drained slowly from his face. With a hard swallow he frowned and looked away from me. Getting up from my bed, I watched as he too stood and moved over to the frosted bedroom window. Watching him place his palm against the pane, I stared at his fingers, noticing the way they twitched against the glass as the cold bit through and traced his palm, leaving a frosted silhouette behind.

"_I don't think I care, Ron. Maybe they're real to me."_

Over the next week, I laid in bed at night, hoping to hear the sound of Harry sleeping soundly. But every night I would hear him quietly creep from his bed, slip on his invisibility cloak, and then walk from the room. He would spend the evenings with his reflected family and I would toss and turn in my bed. After a while, even the twins began asking me if Harry and I were getting enough sleep. I knew he would never stop on his own, any more than I could stop worrying about him.

I thought about writing to Hermione, who always had all the right answers, but instead I spent one more evening listening to Harry as he listened to me, waiting for me to fall asleep. I let my breathing slow, and dozed. When I awoke a short time later, he was gone again. Slipping my Christmas jumper over my worn pajamas, I trudged my way down to the common room before continuing on through the portrait hole. Eventually, I found myself inside the owlery.

So I wrote an anonymous letter to Dumbledore about Harry's obsession — that doesn't make me a bad friend! I knew he'd never stop on his own, and he was wasting away. I couldn't let Harry down like that. I couldn't let Hermione down like that. There was nothing more to be done. I sent one of the school owls with my message, watching it soar between the turrets and beyond . . . sailing through the still night sky. Finally, I turned away and went back to the dorm to wait for Harry's return.

The next night I went to bed early, hoping it would encourage Harry to come back earlier. But on that night, he stayed with the mirror the whole night through, until the morning sun peeked through the mullioned glass of my window to creep along the floor towards me, cascading light into the room with gently ebbing waves of warmth. Only then did I hear him slinking up the stairs towards our shared bedroom.

I watched him through slitted eyes as he dragged the invisibility cloak from his shoulders and dropped it into his trunk. He seemed to collapse upon his bed then, not even bothering to pull the curtains closed around him. I watched him for a while before surrendering to sleep as well.

He didn't seem phased at all the next afternoon. He told me matter-of-factly that Dumbledore had met him the night before when he had gone to visit the mirror of Erised once again. I fought to maintain my composure as I listened to what he had to say.

"_They're moving the mirror?"_ I questioned suddenly.

"_Yeah, but he wouldn't tell me where."_

I looked at him then, at his closed expression and strained body language and wished for Hermione to come back sooner. I knew that Harry needed comforting, but I didn't have the skill. He seemed worse than ever, as if he had finally managed to burn the image of his family onto his heart. But what good is an image? Even with wizard photos you only capture a moment in time. It's not real — you can't interact with them.

In a way, they're entirely exclusive, alienating the viewer from the subject of the photograph.

After all, you can't participate in the activities these pictures capture . . . you can't touch the people inside of them. They are removed from you, taunting you with their sweet smiles and their subtle movements. They torment you with the stolen glances and forbidden hugs shared between best friends that you never noticed when the photo was taken. But every night, if you were to hold it close to your face in the dark, you'd see the warm smiles and innocent glances become strangely intimate . . . as if Photo-Hermione is daring you to sneak into the girl's dormitory, to shake her for looking at Photo-Harry that way when you can clearly see your own Photo-self in the other corner of the frame, looking at her with such hopeful longing.

Er . . . um . . . as a hypothetical, I mean. You know . . . just . . . . Look, images are unfulfilling, alright? They haunt you. They're like dementors that parade around in the guise of benevolent ghosts. And poor Harry has no patronus against their tug and pull. No one does.

"_All right, mate?"_

I squinted, wanting to smack myself in the forehead. I could tell by looking at him that nothing was alright . . . that it was quite possible that nothing would ever be alright again. He had once again lost his family and we were still hard-pressed to find the elusive Nicholas Flamel. Somehow, we had to discover a way to stop Snape from bypassing Fluffy and stealing Flamel's legendary Stone. Why would that cheer him?

I mean, when I'm feeling terrible and missing Hermione . . . _and_ Harry, of course . . . over the summer — you know, when I'm just moping around the Burrow — I'm not grateful to Mum for giving me gnome-weeding duty _"to take my mind off my_ _sulk."_ The only thing that makes it better is when I step into Flourish & Blott's or onto Platform 9 and ¾, when I know I can see her — and him! — again. And the only thought that runs through my mind until then is: maybe this time I'll grab life by the bollocks and actually hug her or tell her just exactly how I've missed her. Um, yeah, you know what I mean.

Hormones, they're just funny little buggers, eh?

Moving on . . . back to Harry.

He had just shrugged his shoulders in defeat and pulled a knee to his chest. Wrapping his arms around the bent leg, he leaned forward to prop his chin on his knee and gazed out at the winter fun-derland that swirled around outside. I invited him out for a snow fight with the twins, but he merely shook his head in response. I offered him an orange sherbert sugar quill, but he refused it, sighing so deeply that his whole body seemed to be affected by it.

"_How about a Chocolate Frog, Harry?"_

He sniffed loudly, and turned his head to meet my gaze with his own. With a small smile of surrender he nodded his head and said,

"_Yes, let's go collect some more Dumbledores!"_

Thinking of the cards as we clambered down to the common room, I shouted:

"_I've got dibs on the Warlock of Wimplestein!"_

He stopped on the stairs to look back at me strangely. His face cracked into an uneasy, wavering smile and soon he was laughing hysterically. Between choked breaths he finally asked:

"_The Vorlock of Vimpleschtein? Oh, for the love of Merlin! Who the bloody hell is **that**?"_

I looked at him in shock and grew very serious.

"_Harry! Everyone knows that he was the original backer for the Chudley Cannons."_

That only inspired further laughter from my best mate, but eventually we made it down the stairs to devour several Bertie Bott's Beans and Chocolate Frogs. Oddly enough, that's where we found Nicholas Flamel . . . on the back of a wizard trading card.

Finding Nicholas Flamel was like Christmas morning all over again . . . we couldn't believe our luck. I couldn't wait to rub it in Hermione's face . . . library schm-ibary!

Oh, Hermione.

I refused to admit how much I'd missed her, especially when Harry only seemed to remember her absence when we were working on our homework and such. But maybe he was like me — simply too embarrassed to admit that he'd missed Hermione (far too much for his own liking) over that first Christmas Break. Maybe he was also preoccupied by daydreams about Hermione, ones where she ran up to him, giving him a giant hug, excitedly telling him how she had missed him every day! That ruddy git —he'd bloody well better not have been!

I couldn't wait to see her again. I hoped for a hug, but I really only expected a tight smile, her head cocking at an arrogant angle before the nagging began. She was like a tiny mother hen, keeping her chicks in line . . . but I didn't want to be her baby. Oh, no. I wanted anything but that. But did she want me like that? Could she fancy me too? Or was this fixation — this bewitchment! — simply another underhanded ploy to take my place?

Harry and I watched for her on the front steps the day everyone arrived back at Hogwarts from the holiday. I couldn't help the grin that broke across my face when I first saw her or the way that I rushed forward with Harry to greet her. We stood around, grinning nervously, and I watched as she patted Harry's arm in welcome, blushing deeply. I maintained my grin until she turned to face me, greeting me with a controlled, almost cool expression.

No, I suppose she hadn't missed me or our near-legendary rows. She was probably dreading the rest of the semester, knowing that wherever Harry went, I would also go. I looked at Harry, the-boy-who-was-completely-oblivious-to-everything, and then quickly took control of her school trunk. I pulled it up the stairs with single-minded determination, lost in my thoughts as I burned for her.

Maybe this would show her that the competition was over

. . . that, just like Harry, she could be my friend as well

. . . that I could be trusted

. . . that I could be loved.

I looked down at them from the top of the stairs, watching them whisper excitedly, heads pressed together as they trudged up the stairs after me. It was like I didn't even exist in our circle. I was Harry's friend and Hermione's acquaintance . . . and that's all I'd ever be.

I'd never be a hero, like Harry. I'd never prove my Gryffindor worth. I'd always be the other friend. I felt impossibly invisible . . . just another measly Weasley . . . a nobody.

As they stopped on the stair below me, I noted the leather-bound case that Hermione carried before her. Meeting my eye, she cocked an eyebrow at me. Rising to the challenge in my own way, I calmly responded:

"_Welcome back Hermione. Happy belated Christmas."_

I didn't really expect an answer . . . maybe a cool nod or an insufferable huff, but not a genuine response. She looked to Harry with a sly look on his face and they shared a dangerous smile. I panicked . . .did she know? What was that look? Why was Harry looking at me like that? Oh, bollocks! What was she going to say?

Looking back at me, she prominently held the leather-bound case before her and opened the top flap. Tilting it forward, she revealed its contents to me. I watched the corner of her mouth curl into a triumphant half-smile before she shook her head vigorously to toss the bushy hair out of her face. With a raised chin and a cocked brow she replied:

"_Game on, Ron."_

I looked down into the case and saw a set of wizard chess pieces, intricately carved in a style that more closely resembled pixies and Muggle fairies than any form of the British monarchy I'd ever seen.

So this is how she saw me . . . as just another competitor to be bested . . . just a stupid, fumbling, clinger-on — an Unworthy. I was a bloody intellectual pariah to her then, a wizard who rode to Hogwarts in the short, yellow, Thestral-drawn carriage. I met her arrogant look with one of my own, my hands tightening on the leather straps of her traveling trunk.

I would show her! I wasn't as stupid as everyone thought . . . maybe more shy than a Gryffindor had a right to be, but I'd show her that I had more than my family's wizarding connections and my sex on my side. I'd meet her on her terms . . . a meeting of the minds . . . and I'd prove my worth.

"_Check, mate," _I replied with an insolence I was far from feeling.

With every win, I thought I'd prove that I was her intellectual equal. I'd force her to look at me, to really see me. And maybe one day she will. There will be a shaft of light that penetrates the shadow that she and Harry cast upon me as Extraordinaries. She will see me for the first time and I will love her, openly and unrestrained. And she will love me back . . . it will be Christmas all year round!

Maybe then I will welcome the season, be jolly and foolish, or finally be able to vanquish the ghost of ickle Vicky Krum, the great Bulgarian git and his ruddy, roaming lips. Maybe I'll eventually forget every harsh thing Ginny ever said in that hallway two days ago when she rent my world into shreds. But until that time, I will hold my tongue, now as I did then, from spewing the emotions that would be so unwelcome to her — the love of my life, Hermione Jane Granger.

Damn that Bulgarian bastard.

Damn Ginny's acid tongue.

Damn my own worthless heart!

How could you all doom me to this hollow life? I'm left here, waiting and stewing with a hope that defies all reason.

Once, I wished that the kisses she pressed to my nervous cheek for good luck before Gryffindor quidditch matches would become the kisses that we'd share in love. Now I wish I could forget every kiss she'd ever given me . . . that she'd ever given anyone. I wish there was no such thing as Christmas, the supposed season of hope and wonder. I wish the ache in my heart had a different source. But most of all, I wish she could finally see me and know why I'm dying inside. Because she's the only one who'd be able to think of a cure, the clever witch. She's the only one who can heal this wound and make me whole. She's the only one who can put the hope and wonder back into Christmas.

Please, Hermione — don't make me think of a solution on my own! I'm bound to bollix it up like I always do. Just give me a clue, let me see your notes, or give me a bloody sign! And for Merlin's sake, tell me why Lavender keeps looking at me, smiling at me. Either she's winking or she's got a bloody tic. Hurry up and work out a solution, Hermione — because I think that she's walking this way!

**Author's Note:** To give credit where credit is due, this story was originally inspired by A Perfect Circle's song: "3 Libras." It was written December 24, 2004 for a Yuletide challenge at a Ron + Hermione (OTP) fanfiction site. This was my first attempt at a fanfiction challenge and I've always had a soft spot for it. I hope that it meets with your approval even though it's not entirely canon and I, admittedly, took a LOT of liberties with the characters and plot.

As it was written at least 7 months before the release of J.K.R.'s _Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince_,I tried to revise the story for the canon changes. (I'm not sure if I was entirely successful.) Also, as it originally had the song lyrics in the story content, I edited them as per policy. I hope that the story still makes sense, though I fear that it is far more angsty (and a lot less humorous) because of these combined changes.

There's a sequel in the works from Hermione's POV called **Sunrise**. I look forward to your reviews and advice (on whether this thread should continue or merely fade into the ether).

Cheers.


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